Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Anna Enquist

A NEW YEAR I

Not yet. The son still has to marry
and the old man die. There’s still going to be
World Cup soccer and a spawn of goldfish.

In the trunk she folds the evening dress,
kids’ clothes, sealed papers. Edible
the little fruits and gingerbread dragons.

On the landing the trunk turns out to be lined
with striped silk. Emptiness, odor of lavender.
Yesterday swans swam here like ships.

The words stumble. Stories
turn to babble. The kids’
names get forgotten.

There was a forest with grey trunks,
a big animal that she watched
with detachment. Beast, she’d think, beast.

Wind blows a song in fifths
and octaves. Stretched branches wave
the last of their hands. There’s a boat

to take her out of the empty harbor.
Her voice is still audible. She’s not yet
boarding for the silent feast.

EEN NIEUW JAAR I

EEN NIEUW JAAR I

Nog niet. De zoon moet nog trouwen,
de oude nog sterven. Er komt nog
wereldvoetbal en goudvissenbroed.

In de reiskist vouwt zij de avondjurk,
kinderkleren, gesloten papieren. Eetbaar
de kleine vruchten en draken van koek.

Op de steiger blijkt de kist gevoerd
met gestreepte zijde. Leegte, lavendelgeur.
Gisteren zwommen hier zwanen als schepen.

De woorden struikelen. Verhalen
worden brabbeltaal. De namen
van de kinderen raken vergeten.

Er was een bos met grijze stammen,
een groot dier dat zij onverschillig
waarnam. Beest, dacht ze, beest.

Wind blaast een lied in kwinten
en octaven. Gestrekte takken wuiven
met hun laatste hand. Er is een boot

om haar de lege haven uit te dragen.
Zij heeft nog stem. Zij laat zich
nog niet varen naar het stille feest.
Close

A NEW YEAR I

Not yet. The son still has to marry
and the old man die. There’s still going to be
World Cup soccer and a spawn of goldfish.

In the trunk she folds the evening dress,
kids’ clothes, sealed papers. Edible
the little fruits and gingerbread dragons.

On the landing the trunk turns out to be lined
with striped silk. Emptiness, odor of lavender.
Yesterday swans swam here like ships.

The words stumble. Stories
turn to babble. The kids’
names get forgotten.

There was a forest with grey trunks,
a big animal that she watched
with detachment. Beast, she’d think, beast.

Wind blows a song in fifths
and octaves. Stretched branches wave
the last of their hands. There’s a boat

to take her out of the empty harbor.
Her voice is still audible. She’s not yet
boarding for the silent feast.

A NEW YEAR I

Not yet. The son still has to marry
and the old man die. There’s still going to be
World Cup soccer and a spawn of goldfish.

In the trunk she folds the evening dress,
kids’ clothes, sealed papers. Edible
the little fruits and gingerbread dragons.

On the landing the trunk turns out to be lined
with striped silk. Emptiness, odor of lavender.
Yesterday swans swam here like ships.

The words stumble. Stories
turn to babble. The kids’
names get forgotten.

There was a forest with grey trunks,
a big animal that she watched
with detachment. Beast, she’d think, beast.

Wind blows a song in fifths
and octaves. Stretched branches wave
the last of their hands. There’s a boat

to take her out of the empty harbor.
Her voice is still audible. She’s not yet
boarding for the silent feast.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère